


i'll keep walking toward the sound of your voice

by rubycrowned



Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, death!fic, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is dead. And when he wakes up, it's cold. Cold and lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll keep walking toward the sound of your voice

**Author's Note:**

> because she's a masochistic bitch: MERRY CHRISTMAS SELIN BABE. ziam death!fic just like you asked for xxx. I've actually had this planned for a long time and just finally got my ass around to writing it. Originally inspired by the Richard Siken poem below.
> 
> Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don't make a noise,  
> don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will  
> come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a  
> graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights  
> on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to  
> dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of  
> things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the  
> bread and devour it. I'm in the hallway again, I'm in the hallway. The  
> radio's playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I'll  
> keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

Death is cold.

It’s not like in the movies; Zayn knows, intrinsically, that he's dead even as he opens his eyes to find himself curled up on his sofa, comfy and worn, with little pieces of stuffing peeking through the threads of the arm rests. He doesn't have to go through any dramatic reveal involving hands through objects, or violent tantrums as people ignore him until, finally, it dawns on him. It just is.

He can still remember the guy with the knife; the glint of it under the streetlight as he chose to brandish it at the exact same moment that Zayn stepped forward to give up, to hand him his wallet, his watch, whatever it took. He remembers the man's stricken expression as his knife came away dark; the terror setting fire to his eyes in the second he met Zayn’s before he bolted, leaving Zayn to stumble, falling to his knees in the wet snow that coated the alleyway, only twenty metres from the stairs to his flat. He remembers looking up to see the light of his lounge window and knowing, at some level, that no matter how much he wished otherwise, he wouldn't be missed until it was too late. He remembers the pain finally searing to the front of his brain, taking over his thoughts as blood ran red, seeping between his fingers from his sodden jumper and dripping into the grey city snow. He remembers a final moment of clarity before the black.

So much black.

And now, somehow, he's back in his flat, drowning in silence and the ice in his veins. At least there is no pain here.

It surprises him, that. That there's no pain, no burning, no lashing torture; that apparently he hasn't been sentenced to a cursed eternity in hell. He was certain that that would be where he would find himself when he eventually awoke. Or, at the very least, forever stuck in the oppressive, suffocating black with no way out.

Instead he is able to lie and watch as the morning sun slowly soaks the sofa in its warm morning rays (or so Zayn presumes them to be; he remembers the sensation and his skin itches for it. But for now he can only admire the soft yellow tones the light gives the fabric while his own skin shrieks blue).

There isn’t any rush to move; Zayn doesn't see the point, and the memory of a wound he can no longer see on the unblemished skin beneath his blood-stained shirt is enough to keep him frozen to the sofa cushions for the time being, trying to get _that_ and _this_ to coexist in his mind as he watches the sunlight catch on the dust drifting unhurried through the air.

But, sometime not long after the sun passes the middle of the sky, a noise disturbs the dusty quiet.

It comes from the room over, and Zayn sits bolt upright, finally moving at the same time his stilled heart screams out a single word, as if remembering that which it had reliably beat in time to for years.

_Liam_.

A hundred thousand memories of lazy days and long nights, of crinkly eyes and laughter; all catalogued by a dozen different hairstyles to form a timeline of the _best_ moments of Zayn’s life. All blasting through his brain in the exact way they didn’t in the _last_ moments. All because of the soft pad of familiar footsteps and the creak of the floorboards on Liam’s side of the bed.

Zayn’s holding his breath (and it’s weird, isn’t it? Because that doesn’t mean anything anymore; no tightness building in his chest as cells beg for oxygen, just that anxious tension), not yet daring to move as the bedroom door opens.

It’s almost a good thing that Liam is seemingly oblivious to Zayn’s presence in their lounge, because Zayn can’t hold back his gasp at just how _defeated_ Liam looks. He slopes towards the kitchen in sweat pants and a navy jumper which Zayn knows to be oversized on himself, but fits not-quite-snug across Liam’s hunched shoulders. His hair is still growing out from his most recent attempt at a buzz cut (which Zayn always teased him about since – between that and his muscles, Zayn with his leather and cigarettes, and their combined portfolio of tattoos – they looked proper fearsome some days. If only they knew about the nights stayed in marathon-ing Disney films and Zayn’s penchant for onesies), but the strands are lank and greasy, as if it’s been a few days since he’d showered.

Zayn has no idea how long he was out, immersed in darkness, but he hopes it hasn’t been too long. Needs it not to have been too long. Because he’s been with Liam through rough times as well as the good, but he’s never seen him so dejected and lost as when he finishes fixing himself a mug of tea and drops with the weariness of the world into the opposite end of the sofa. It’s his usual spot, where Zayn would rest his feet in his lap, prodding his toes into Liam’s ribs until Liam would sigh and start giving him a massage, small smile on his face as he slowly worked his way up Zayn’s legs until he was straddling Zayn and could lean in for a kiss.

Now, Liam is staring at the place Zayn usually sits, where he’s sitting now. He’s staring straight through Zayn, and it shouldn’t hurt but it does. And he can’t help but rock forward so he’s kneeling, still a foot from where Liam is, quietly begging,

“Li? Liam can you hear me?”

He doesn’t expect a response, and doesn’t get one.

He wants to reach out those final centimetres, to brush the sadness from Liam’s face with the pad of his thumb. But he doesn’t think he could stand the rejection if Liam were to remain unaware of him.

Instead, Zayn sits back once more and watches Liam as his tea turns cold.

***

He gives up though; it doesn’t take long.

Only until that night when Liam stumbles off to bed in the early hours, leaving the lights on throughout the house. Waiting for Zayn to come home and switch them off on his way past.

Zayn follows after a minute. Stands in the open doorway and stares with fresh heartbreak at the tiny huddle of Liam curled in on himself under the covers. He’s torn still, debates with himself for long moments whether he should really do this. But in the end it’s what he was always going to do.

He climbs onto his own side of the bed, crawls over to the pile of blankets hiding Liam, lays himself down behind him, still inches between them. Zayn’s hesitant, but his whole being is singing the song of Liam’s touch and he edges forward, closing the space by infinitesimal increments.

And then Zayn is moulded around Liam, pressed together, chest to back and knees to thighs. His hand reaches up and over to wrap around Liam’s chest, thumb brushing over his exposed collarbone.

It’s- not warm. But it’s like there are little flickers of not-cold rushing down Zayn’s body at all the places they’re touching.

“Zayn.”

It’s barely a sigh, the faintest exhalation of air, and Zayn knows Liam’s asleep, doesn’t really know that he’s there. But when Liam almost seems to settle backwards into Zayn’s non-existent embrace, the tears spill over Zayn’s cheeks, only for him to watch them drip onto Liam’s shoulder, disappearing as soon as they ought to be making contact.

Maybe this is why he’s here. His _unfinished business_ or whatever bullshit it is people say.

It was the one thing Zayn always knew he was good at; it makes sense he’d still be doing it even after death.

He’s going to take care of Liam.

***

Zayn manages to figure out the rules of being a ghost (it sounds dumb even in his head, but he supposes that's what he is now) eventually, but it takes him the better part of a week. It really would've been useful if he'd been given some mysterious spirit guide – or at least a handbook – but he copes well enough in his opinion. It’s not as though there's anyone to see Zayn embarrassing himself other than him so it's not that terrible, Zayn thinks, as he falls through the sofa to become entangled in the wooden frame and rusty springs for the third time that day. Even if he does keep looking over to Liam's still form, staring out the window, to make sure he hasn't been caught out (he tells himself it's out of habit still, and not a hope that maybe he has).

The rules he's figured out so far are as follows.

As far as Zayn can tell, no one can see, hear, feel him - he's by all accounts unobservable. He doesn't want to say it absolutely without exception - he's hardly seen anyone, and sometimes he still likes to think that Liam can sense something - because the idea is so extraordinarily lonely that he would rather hold onto the alternative, even when there's no real evidence to attach himself to. Zayn's working on that one, though; maybe with enough practice...it's what happens in all the movies, right?

The whole interacting with objects thing is more complex, and Zayn’s still unsure he completely understands it, but he's got the basics about down now.

He can 'touch' pretty much anything he wants to; the ability to lay his hand on something, to feel the texture (although the sensation is diminished; thick and undefined), to jump up and sit himself on the kitchen bench as he watches Liam make a sandwich with half stale bread - all these things come easily, like breathing. He doesn't need to think about it.

But the objects can't interact back, and Zayn can't place any force in his touch, doesn't have any weight to put behind it. So he can touch the door handle, but can't turn it; he can sit in his favourite seat, can feel the fraying fabric, but the cushions won't give under him; he can stroke Liam's hair as he sleeps, but the strands refuse to be ruffled.

Some of the issues that brings up are counteracted by the almost assumed ghost-y behaviour of moving through objects instead, something Zayn only discovered accidentally, if he’s honest.

It’s two mornings after Zayn first wakes up (as he thinks of it). And the shower's running in the bathroom; something Zayn is sure must be a good sign. Until, that is, Zayn realises he can hear the sound of sobs, muffled by the thudding water on the other side of the door. On the other side of the _closed_ door.

Zayn bangs on the thin wooden barrier relentlessly, but it might as well be a metre of steel separating them. He wishes his closed fists would make even the tiniest of audible taps, hell, he wishes that his hands would be bloody and ragged ( _nopainnopain_ his mind chants at him) from pounding at the door if it meant that Liam could know he was not alone. If it meant that at least Zayn could know he's okay.

And then he's stumbling through to the bathroom, would've caught his head with an almighty knock on the lip of the bath if he hadn't passed through it as easy as he had the door.

He'd been whispering Liam's name over and over, begging, as he went through. But if touching is like breathing, then passing through is like yelling; it’s easy enough to do once you know how, but you have to think about it, there needs to be intention rather than the unconscious effort of _inhale_ and _exhale_ – except for those times when you're so overwhelmed that it slips out by accident. Or, in Zayn’s case, end up with your face foot deep in porcelain with water falling straight through where your forehead supposedly is to hit the bottom of the bath.

That part makes even less sense to Zayn; he may have to exert actual effort to pass through things, but if things want to pass through him? No issue whatsoever. Because (of course) any opportunity that Zayn might actually be able to use to communicate with Liam would immediately be shut down. He adds it to his optimistic (because what else can he be) list of things to try teach himself.

He's found he can't leave the flat either. He realises in hindsight that it explains quite well why he's never actually fallen through the floor into the Thai restaurant beneath them, why his attempts to poke his head out through the glass of the window have never worked.

He had wondered for a while if it was more of an attachment to Liam than the flat itself. Until the day that Louis barrels in, four-limbed ball of energy (Zayn can see the strain in his features though; the creases by his eyes that aren’t caused by laughter, the concern etched deep in the set of his lips), and drags Liam out for some fresh air. And Zayn tries to follow, but he _can’t_.

And that’s the part about all this that kills Zayn the most, leaves him frozen and struggling to take breaths he doesn’t need anymore.

He doesn’t sleep. It doesn’t seem like he can.

Instead Zayn watches Liam’s face smooth out each night in something close to peace (if he ignores all the places grief still brands him, even in sleep). And he tries not to think about what happens if Liam ever leaves and doesn’t come back.

***

“I miss you, Zayn.”

Zayn is sitting on the coffee table in front of Liam, knees almost knocking his as Liam breaths out the words. And Liam has no idea.

It’s not the first time.

Zayn had almost died a second time when Liam first ‘spoke’ to him, but he knows now that Liam is really just speaking to air, to the memory of the person he loved in some only-half-believed hope that someone’s listening.

“The bed’s so empty without you next to me. I even miss you pressing your bloody freezing toes against my calves to warm them up.”

And Zayn tries to tell him, tries to let him know, _I’m here, babe, I’m here every day and every night and even now, pressing my toes against your legs is still the closest thing to warmth I can feel._

The time Louis came round, Zayn managed to put together the dates. It had been less than a week since he died when he woke back up. The day after his funeral. Zayn’s glad they’d never mentioned that in front of him. He doesn’t know which would’ve been worse – knowing there were so many people out there grieving for him, missing him, or finding that he was just another person you murmured _I’m sorry_ for as you passed their family on the street.

“I can’t turn the lights off at night. I’m still worried you’ll come home and stub your toe on the sofa because you’re so _dumb_ , Zayn; we’ve had that thing for _three years_ and _every time-_ ”

When Liam’s voice cracks and tears drip down his face, Zayn wraps him up, tries to press himself closer and closer to Liam, tries to make him _feel_. But he can’t pull Liam into his shoulder, can’t spread them out on the sofa so that Liam’s curled into his side with his head on Zayn’s chest while Zayn runs soothing hands up and down his torso until the sadness subsides.

Sometimes, Zayn watches Liam take Zayn’s cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket and stick his head outside the window to inhale deep, barely spluttering. And there’s a part of Zayn that wants to know how Liam learnt to smoke, because he’s never seen him take a single drag before now. But the much larger part just wants to yell at him _stop it Li, don’t be such a dick, those things will kill you, you were always telling me that, and don’t you get it? It was alright for me, it never really mattered whether I lived or died, but the world can’t keep turning if you’re not in it, Liam._

Zayn thinks he understand though, really. Thinks Liam does it to try and feel close to Zayn again. Zayn’s only a foot away from Liam a lot of the time and still misses him. Almost wants to take up running so he can know he feels the same high, the same burn that Liam loves. If he had anywhere he could go that is. If he could still feel a burn. If he could still feel anything besides cold and sadness.

“I miss you, Zayn. You were- I miss you so much.”

The first month is hard.

***

The next six are harder.

Liam still talks to himself (to Zayn but- to himself).

Zayn still tries to comfort him (tries to comfort himself).

Liam goes out, not _often_ , but something Zayn thinks is an imitation of a normal, happy person (he hears him talking to Harry on the phone, arranging to go out for coffee, agreeing to see Niall’s gig – _I can’t stay out too late though_ , and through the crackling phoneline, a heavy sigh _-I know, Li_ )

Zayn waits for him, staring at the door from Liam’s seat (trying to leech the remnants of heat from the cushion but, really, the cold has deadened him at this point).

Liam still has nightmares, sometimes, waking in a cold sweat and panting as if he’s run a marathon.

Zayn still hovers around him, wishing he could press comfort into the fear in his brow.

Sometimes, Liam is watching telly, or gets a text, and he _smiles_. And there’s the tiniest hint of the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that Zayn fell in love with all those years ago.

Sometimes, Zayn will feel a little piece of his frozen heart break, but try to smile because this is what he wants; he _needs_ Liam to move on, to be happy, to live a life without Zayn because he _can_.

Whereas Zayn is stuck. Stuck in sadness and sorrow and Zayn always thought it was the living that mourned the dead but now he can see life carrying on around him, no matter how stuttered and broken and surely that’s worse – never being able to move on.

Except that, most of the time, Zayn knows Liam’s not. Not really.

When no one else is around (just Zayn, always Zayn) he still loses himself, drawn into a shell Zayn can’t ever remember existing in the before.

And simply _being_ there for Liam doesn’t seem like enough anymore. The quietly watching and waiting and pretending that maybe Liam can feel his presence.

So Zayn _screams_. He cries and he’s yelling and _Liam I’m._ Right. Here. _I’ve always been here and I always will be and I need you and I love you and I’m_ sorry. _I’m sorry for dying and I’m sorry for leaving you and I’m sorry I needed smokes that night and left you all alone._ He screams at Liam, staring blankly at the wall behind the TV, and some part of him thinks maybe he’s finally snapped, that eventually all this time with no one able to hear you will send anybody over the precipice; because Liam’s still not listening and there are voices pressing in on all sides of Zayn’s head, vying for attention and Zayn’s still yelling even as his voice grows hoarse (from emotion only, _no pain, never any pain_ his brain whispers).

_Please, Liam. I’m here._

Liam shudders.

Zayn’s on his knees.

Two pieces; cracked and imperfect and yearning for the time when they were whole.

They go on.

***

And eventually Zayn realises.

He’s only making things worse.

Every night that Zayn spends in their bed is a night that Liam wakes with a start, a startled breath of _Zayn_ on his tongue.

Every touch, every flicker of not-warmth that surges through Zayn at contact with Liam has begun to leave a nearly imperceptible shiver in its wake.

It’s like Zayn’s sucking the heat, the life from Liam.

It’s the opposite of what Zayn had wanted, and somehow that makes him feel all the more guilty.

And after he spends the night watching the boys give each other pointed looks and smiling sadly in Liam’s direction (and when Liam’s in the bathroom – _“He’s not coping” “Has he mentioned anything about going back to work to you?” “At least Zayn doesn’t have to see him like this” “The poor bastard, he’d be devastated” “I just don’t know what to do anymore” “Oh shit, please don’t- Li’s gonna be back in a sec, we have to keep it- Hey, Liam! What movie you fancy?”_ – Zayn thinks he might shatter into icy shards if anyone so much as breathed too close to him) he makes the decision he knows he should’ve made months ago.

He pulls away.

He doesn’t let himself touch anymore. Fights the urge to let himself count the passing seconds of the nights by the rise and fall of Liam’s chest.

He doesn’t always succeed.

Can’t always stay away when Liam’s cry pierces the silence. Can’t keep from brushing cool fingers across his sweaty brow.

But he knows the frequency of those nights have lessened.

Liam still leaves the lights on.

Zayn isn’t sure if it’s out of habit at this point; if Liam will continue to do so for the rest of his life until he no longer remembers why he began. Until someone points it out and he shrugs, realises what he’s been doing and switches the light off. Into darkness.

Zayn’s not sure if that comforts him the way it used to anymore.

The voices plaguing Zayn grow louder.

Liam still talks to him sometimes.

“It’s weird. I thought- it’s stupid but I thought for a while that you were actually around. Here with me. Not anymore though.”

Zayn almost breaks his vow right there.

Because Zayn’s so desperately lonely. Forever and always alone and Zayn needs comfort too. Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s at the sacrifice of Liam’s happiness.

He doesn’t. But.

But maybe this is hell after all.

Liam is smiling more. It’s genuine, and sometimes for no discernible reason – but simply because he’s _happy_.

It might not be a fiery pit, but Zayn’s not sure that would hurt less. Because this is agony and it’s all he’s wanted for the better part of a year and don’t they always say the devil appears with a smile on his face and the best of intentions?

“I think- I think maybe I’ve met someone.”

And Zayn feels like a statue made of brittle frost, frozen in the corner he’s claimed as his own, next to the half-dead plant that Liam barely remembers to water (the times when he comes close to feed it are the only ones Zayn lets himself reach for Liam now). But this makes him want to sprint, somewhere, anywhere, so he doesn’t have to listen to this.

He’d guessed as much; phone calls, texts, regular and more frequent outings at night (Zayn has been terrified for the night Liam doesn’t come home). That doesn’t mean he knows how to handle the words Liam’s uttering.

For the first time, he lets himself drown in the cacophony of voices buzzing through him.

_You wanted this. You wanted him happy._

They might be worse than listening to Liam.

_But that doesn’t mean he can just_ forget _me_ , Zayn cries.

_He’s not forgetting you, Zayn. Liam would never._

The voice is warm, fond, ever so slightly exasperated. It’s familiar.

_He’s only remembering how to love again._

_But it_ hurts _._

If he strains, Zayn can almost pinpoint where he knows it from.

_I know, Pota. But you don’t have to stay to watch this._

_Daadi?_

And then it’s as though his grandfather is with him. Zayn can’t see him, but when he’s pulled into an invisible hug he can _feel_ it. It’s like sitting in front of an open fire on winter nights. It makes all those nights clinging to the vague spark Liam gave off, which pained them both, seem nothing but a shadowy emulation.

_It’s okay, Zayn. You don’t have to torture yourself anymore._

And then a second voice makes itself known.

_Please come. It’s so nice here._

_Ant? But- I missed you so much._

It’s Zayn’s old friend, killed in a drunk driving accident when they were only teenagers. It had torn up Zayn and Ant’s brother, Danny – the first boy Zayn had ever thought he might have loved. They’d been torn apart by the grief and the guilt, both passengers in the same car. Both walking away with only scratches, bruises; only invisible scars remaining. Zayn falters.

_I’m sorry._

_Don’t be, Z. I missed you just as much. And Liam’s going to miss you too. But he’ll come find you one day. When it’s time. Come home with us, Zayn._

_But this-_

_Not anymore_ , Zayn’s grandfather speaks up once more, _this is only a haunted house for you now._

And Zayn opens his eyes, looks back to Liam. He’s still murmuring softly to himself, a slow smile lighting up his face. Zayn wants to be glad for him, to be able to deny the words. But all he can see are the memories of a different time where there was _ZaynandLiam_ and not a decayed wreckage turned to dust.

He whispers the smallest _I love you_ to the man he’s spent both life and death revolving around, and finally leans back into the realest embrace he’s felt in almost a year.

It’s like every cliché he’s ever heard, but there’s one overwhelming thought, even as he swears he sees Liam turn to look right at him before the view of the flat is washed out by white.

_Warmth._

***

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. Leave your hate (or idk...love? if you're into masochism/reverse psychology) in the comments


End file.
